


some mad hope

by explosivesky



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Hybrid AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28774923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosivesky/pseuds/explosivesky
Summary: He’d almost forgotten they were still out there, scattered across the stars and solar systems and galaxies, waiting for him. Ghosts. A curse. She’s gone, but she’s not gone. She’ll follow him forever. The idea enthralls him. Please, he thinks, haunt me to death.“You love her,” she says quietly.
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Kudos: 10





	some mad hope

**I.**

Her parting words had been brave, he can’t deny that.

But it doesn’t change the fact that she shouldn’t have died at all, and the loss of someone as brilliant and kind and compassionate as Clara Oswald from the universe should never go unpunished.

No. This is the first time he refuses to suffer alone.

**II.**

He doesn’t know how long he runs from The Veil, or how many hours, days, weeks he spends dodging from corridor to corridor, and Clara is everywhere.

The first time he runs into her portrait, he thinks about how easy it would be to stand still, let the creature catch up to him, and finally, finally, just _die._

The only reason he decides against it is because he is not the one who deserves to pay for her death.

He decides against it in favour of revenge.

He needs answers; he needs to know _why,_ and _how_ , and _who_ ; he can see no reason, no sense, and there is no peace to be found.

If she were in his place, he reasons, she wouldn’t sit idly by in grief - she would want blood, just as she did for Danny’s. 

In the end, he and Clara really are the same, after all.

**III.**

He needs a fixed point for his plan to work, his dream of vengeance growing clearer and clearer. He’d imagined it in the castle, cemented it with the return of Gallifrey. The Time Lords are never there when he needs them to be, and they rarely, if ever, do the right thing; engineering the scheme to be rescued from their trapped dimension is proof enough. Look where it led them. Look who it hurt.

Lake Silencio seems like a fine enough spot; he won’t waste time searching for a new one out of some strange poetic justice. He just needs a moment that will remain unchanged and infallible.

He decides to stop by the rock-and-roll cafe he’d visited so long ago, his guitar slung over his shoulder, looking entirely the part. Maybe he’ll try coffee before he embarks on his self-destructive mission for retribution. He enters; there’s one waitress chatting with a man at a booth, and another clamouring around in the kitchen. He sits on a barstool and reads the menu upside-down. 

Through his peripheral, he sees someone take a few steps out of the back, falter immediately, and turn around. He thinks nothing of it. Maybe they’ve forgotten something.

The person returns a few minutes later, walking casually over to him and asking cheerfully, “What can I get you?”

His entire body stills, solid like a stone statue - that voice, he _knows_ that voice better than any sound in the universe--

He’s terrified to glance up, but when he does, he’s completely unable to process what he’s seeing in front of him. Both his hearts flicker like lights going out. 

Because it’s Clara.

And it’s _really_ Clara, not just her face, which he sees on everyone, everywhere, because she’s all he sees, anymore - it’s _her,_ the whole person, standing in front of him with her hair up and a white apron over her blue dress. He stares. She raises an eyebrow.

“What can I get you?” She repeats again, slowly. Her accent is distinctly American. Her face shows no flutter of recognition.

His hearts beat again, feeble and weak, and he realizes: she’s an echo.

He’d almost forgotten they were still out there, scattered across the solar systems and galaxies, waiting for him. Ghosts. A curse. She’s gone, but she’s not gone. She’ll follow him forever. The idea enthralls him. _Please_ , he thinks, _haunt me to death_.

She’s waiting for him to speak, her confusion growing. He says, “Hi.”

She smiles charmingly. “Hello.”

“Erm,” he says, stumbling over himself; there’s an overgrown forest in his mouth. “I’ll have the--” he glances down, and orders the first thing he sees, “--buttermilk short stack with sausage. And a cup of coffee.”

“Scottish,” she deduces obviously, writing his order down and sliding the note to the kitchen. His accent is pretty thick. “What’re you doing out here? In this godforsaken place?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he replies, but she doesn’t understand the true meaning of his statement. He observes her closely. Her smile is exactly how he’s been picturing it in his mind, every memory of her happiness running on an internal loop. And her eyes--

She laughs airily. Too lightly. She says, “Honestly? No clue. I’ve been here a few months.” She shrugs. “Haven’t found it in me to pack up again, yet.”

He knows why she’s here. She’s here for him, she always is. He can’t tell her. 

She slides him his coffee. He says, “Thanks.” He looks at it. It smells disgusting. He wrinkles his nose. 

She offers, “Cream and sugar?” 

“Both,” he replies immediately, and pours three packets into his coffee and a bit of cream until he can no longer see his reflection in it. She watches him amusedly. He says, “I’m here because I had a plan.”

“Oh?” She asks, interested. “What kind of plan?”

The door chimes. Someone else enters and greets the only other waitress, taking a seat at the booth near the door. Usual customers. He says, “You don’t want to know.”

She cocks her head to the side. Nothing he’ll tell her will frighten her, or drive her away. She’s here for him. Maybe she senses it already. She replies, “A bad plan, then.”

“I suppose,” he allows. He takes a sip of the coffee. It’s revolting, but he drinks it anyway. “Deserved, though.”

“By whose standards?” She questions cleverly. His order rings up. She turns, her ponytail whipping behind her as she reaches for his plate. 

“Certainly not yours,” he answers mildly, dazed, cataloguing her every movement like she’s dancing for him. She looks over her shoulder before she shifts back, eyebrow crooked quizzically. 

“You sound pretty sure about my morals,” she says. She places the plate in front of him. The sausage, at least, looks edible. 

He drowns his pancakes in syrup and butter and says, “I am.” 

There’s a moment of silence. She watches him take the first bite, grimacing, and giggles. It rips him apart. He misses her so much.

She leans over the counter, resting her weight on her elbows. She says pointedly, “You’re sad.”

“Sad would be a bit of an insult,” he replies. “Understatement.”

“Devastated,” she tries again. Her ponytail brushes her shoulder, head leaning slightly to the right.

“Maybe.”

“Well,” she says, “what word would you use?”

He looks at the coffee in front of him, the stains on the plate. Steam rises from the liquid. He glances back up at her face and it’s not a hallucination. Her eyes are warm, her lips pink in a light smile. His blood pools against his pulse points painfully, congealing as if he’s covered in bruises, like it’s damaging his body to live.

He says truthfully, “Hell.”

The answer strikes her. She pauses, and then takes the receipt sitting next to his arm, crumpling it up in her hand. She says softly, “On the house.” She isn't smiling anymore.

“Why?” He asks, taken aback.

She says plainly, “Because something terrible happened to you. Something terrible enough that you’re here. A place nobody should ever be, I think.”

He pries again, “So why are _you_ still here?”

She purses her lips. Her eyelashes dip against her cheekbone. “I guess I’ve been waiting for something,” she responds vaguely, and nothing else.

“ _Oswald!_ ” The other waitress calls. His head snaps to the woman, and back to Clara - or whatever she’s known as in this life. 

She offers him a quick grin. “Sorry,” she apologizes, making a motion to head over. She hesitates after a few steps. She says, without looking at him, “The food is atrocious. But you should come back tomorrow.”

He doesn’t answer her. He doesn’t need to.

As if he’d ever refuse her anything.

**IV.**

He returns, of course he does. He’d follow her across the universe. Any version of her.

He sits in a booth, feet pressed against the floor, supporting his guitar. He’s strumming casually. She brings him another cup of coffee, and sits opposite him. 

She notes, “You don’t have to order coffee if you don’t like it.” 

He waves the remark away. “It’s punishment.”

“You’re punishing yourself with a hot caffeinated beverage?” She asks dubiously. 

“I could do worse,” he says, thinking of the girl sitting in front of him. Yes, he’s punishing himself. Talking to her is abuse enough. 

She hums thoughtfully. “I guess you could.”

He plucks at the strings again. The melody is soft and tender and beautiful, but haunting. She says, nodding at the instrument, “That’s sad.” 

He’s staring at the window, watching her reflection in the glass. “Nothing’s sad ‘till it’s over,” he says. “Then everything is.”

Her fingers curl around her own coffee cup, warming her palms. She asks, “What’s it called?”

He allows the melody to travel through him, the notes ringing against his heart, and says, “I think it’s called Clara.” He almost breaks on her name. He doesn’t. 

She doesn’t react. He’d guessed as much. It’s not her name in this life. She listens for a while, comprehending the ache of the chords, the vibration, gentle and soothing. She says suddenly, “Tell me about her.”

She isn’t looking at him. She’s staring determinedly at her hands. 

His throat burns, like it’s scratched, cut. Like hot alcohol is seeping into the torn muscle. His lungs on an open flame. _Tell me about her._ What is there to say? What isn’t there to say? How could he possibly sum her up? His mouth dries out like the desert they’re both stranded in. _Tell me about her._

She’s you, he wants to say. Tell me about _you._

He finally looks at her. She doesn’t follow. He takes in odd details: the length of her fingernails, the lines on her lips, the covered-up circles underneath her eyes. 

He says, referring to the woman across from him, “She’s everything.” 

Her mouth quirks wistfully. “You seem like someone who’d have a pretty encompassing definition of _everything,_ ” she replies carefully.

He stares at the light catching in her hair. He says, “I can’t breathe without her.” He strums his guitar again, gaze falling back out the window. He should walk into the desert, traipsing after the horizon, where he’s sure he’d find her, smiling and waving and beckoning him into the heat. “Maybe that’s why I’m here,” he continues, replying to himself out loud. His entire body throbs. He wishes he were dead. He says, not staring at her, “You look tired.”

She’s quick, but her tone is blank and buried. “That’s not a nice thing to tell a woman.”

The corners of his lips twitch. He responds, “I’m sorry.”

She finally lifts her eyes, studying him. They’re glazed. He doesn’t see. She says, “I don’t sleep anymore.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, and the liquid is heavy, bitter. He swallows and hopes it burns. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I know the feeling.”

There are things she’s not telling him, but he doesn’t push her. 

There are plenty of things he’s not telling her, either.

**V.**

The next day, he orders scrambled eggs, which is a dreadful mistake.

“I know,” she says, watching him scrunch his entire face unpleasantly. “They’re awful. Taste like melted plastic.”

He shakes his head. “Oh, just get me a coffee.” 

She opens her mouth, but closes it just as quickly, forcing a smile on. “Sure.”

She sets it in front of him delicately. He pours so much sugar into it he’d probably get some kind of health-related disease if he were human. She watches, nose crinkled, but her eyes have that look - he’s so familiar with it - endeared. Adoring. She probably doesn’t even know why she feels it. 

He observes, “You work a lot.”

She lifts and drops her shoulders airily. “I took a few extra shifts this week.”

Because of him. It’s unsaid, as it should be. “I’m glad I could be here for them.”

She laughs once. What an odd compliment. “As am I,” she replies. “Still working on your plan?” 

They’re closing in on him every day, probably, frantically trying to tie him down before he does what he wants to do; Ashildr and the Time Lords and the Daleks and every being whose life is currently threatened by his desire for destruction. He links his fingers together. He says, “I’m not thinking of much else, at the moment.”

“Except what?” She asks. She’d caught the double meaning. Clara is always clever, no matter who she is. 

He looks into her eyes. She stares back, her mouth falling inch by inch when he refuses to answer. His coffee remains untouched.

She shifts her weight between feet. Her gaze darts down and then away.

“You love her,” she says quietly. Her nails fidget with the strap of her apron. She won’t meet his eyes.

He answers candidly, “Yes.”

She bites down on the inside of her lip, hard. She asks, “How long will you love her?”

He raises his eyebrows. The question is unexpected and telling. He wonders if she knows, somewhere, that she's the one he loves. He says, “What do you mean?”

“People fall out of love all the time,” she clarifies. “They move on.”

“I’m not people,” he says. “I’m not even human.”

She winces at the reply but ignores the revelation entirely. He notices. She repeats, “How long?”

He studies her. She’s staring out the window, watching the clouds crawl in the wind. 

He says, “I’ve done that before. I’ve moved on.”

“Should be easy, then,” she responds determinedly, face stoic.

“No,” he tells her softly. “Not this time.”

“Quit dancing around it,” she orders impatiently. 

He smiles, and it aches, the muscles feeling unused and raw. She’s as bossy as she’s always been. 

He reaches out and takes a strand of her hair carefully between his fingers, tucking it behind her ear. His fingertips skim her cheekbone. She seems surprised at the contact, and her eyelids flutter shut briefly, her head tilting into him like an automatic reaction. 

She meets his eyes with hers at last. There’s a deep pain spilling out of them, like they’ve cracked suddenly, creviced and anguished; he swears he can see _I miss you_ drowning in them. It’s a look much older than she is, or should be, or should ever have to be, like the real Clara is fighting through to get one last glimpse at him.

“I’ll take this to my grave,” he replies, watching the way her teeth press down against her bottom lip. “And for me, that’s saying something.”

And he doesn’t know why, but he can sense it within her: the answer both elates and crushes her at the same time.

**VI.**

She enters the diner the next day in the late morning, and he’s already sitting at the counter. She takes the stool next to him. He glances over and his eyebrows raise. 

“Casual Friday?” He asks, noting her lack of uniform.

Her smile curls. She says, “I don’t work until the afternoon, but I figured you’d be here waiting.”

“So you came back for me?” The joke slips out naturally, but his hearts clench uncomfortably in his chest when he realizes what he’s just said. He wishes she would. _Come back for me_. It ricochets around his skull like a bullet. _Stay with me._

She notices his sudden silence, his blank expression. She offers, “I thought we could go somewhere else.”

He says, “I have nowhere else to go.”

She flinches. It’s like every word out of his mouth is needle in her skin. “There’s a lake a ways away,” she begins, “and it’s pretty, but…” she trails off uncertainly. “I don’t like it. It gives me a weird - vibe.”

He almost laughs. She _would_ be essentially programmed to hate the place he’s planning on wreaking havoc. 

She continues, “There’s an actual restaurant a few miles back. With real food. That you can eat. Not in the desert.”

“With an offer like that,” he deadpans, already picking up his guitar. “I’ll meet you there. I can’t leave my - vehicle.”

She nods. “Okay. You can’t miss it. Called Red’s.”

He pays his bill with far too much money in his haste to follow her. She’s first out the door, and he hears her taking off on her bike, engine roaring. She’s far down the road by the time he exits. But he still beats her there.

She doesn’t question it when she sees him waiting inside, but her eyebrows do raise suspiciously. She says, “Impressive.”

“I’ve been told that before.”

She doesn’t respond. They sit at a table. He orders a beer. The waiter gives him an odd look.

“It’s noon,” she points out. 

“Time doesn’t mean much to me,” he replies. 

She shrugs and orders a margarita. 

Of course, he hates it, and she understandingly swaps drinks with him. They decide to split a pizza; she wants mushrooms, and he randomly selects pineapple. The other customers chatter loudly around them. A baby cries. 

“Someone doesn’t like steamed carrots,” she notes mildly. He stares at her. She says, catching his gaze, “What?”

“How did you know that?” He asks, perturbed. 

She smiles curiously. “What?”

“How did you know what the baby was saying?” 

She laughs. It’s short and forced. She nods her head behind him and says, “She’s sitting back there; I can see them.” 

“Oh,” he says. “You know, you aren’t fazed by much.”

Their food arrives on a hot plate, the server smiling at them before rushing off to a table where a boy has just broken a glass. She tells him, “You’re not great with explanations.”

“I’m not right,” he clarifies. “I’m out of place. I say strange things.” 

She lifts and drops her shoulders. “I just figured you were a strange man.” 

“I am.”

“Well, then,” she answers lightly, “case closed.”

She takes a bite and scrunches her nose. The pineapple is too moist, sweet. He tries it, too, but he surprisingly enjoys the contrast in flavour. He says, “I like it.”

She rolls her eyes. “You would--” She pauses. “What’s your name?”

It’s an unexpected question, but simultaneously warranted; he’s been seeing her for four days now. “The Doctor,” he replies. “I think.” 

“You think?”

“Sometimes, I’m not so sure.”

She hums in her throat, accepting the justification wordlessly. She takes another bite. He’s afraid to know the answer, but he asks anyway. “What’s yours?” A thought strikes him. “You don’t wear a nametag at the diner.”

“No,” she agrees with the observation. “Always the same customers. No point.” 

“Ah.” 

“It’s Oswin,” she says, but she’s staring at her plate. “I’m not really hungry.”

He takes two more slices. She smiles quietly to herself, her gaze downcast. He wants to sit here with her forever, watching her mouth curl, her laugh echoing out, her eyes alight. He’d let the universe go if that were possible.

He finishes his food. She says, “I should head back. Almost time for my shift.” 

“Okay,” he says. He takes a wad of bills out of his pocket and throws it on the table. “It’s on me.”

Her eyes widen comically at the amount, but she doesn’t bother correcting him. “Thanks.” She rises, turning to exit. She says, “Don’t be a stranger.” And then: “I want to hear your plan before you follow through with it.” She walks out.

He sips at his drink. The salt sticks to the roof of his mouth.

Well, that limits him. 

**VII.**

It’s still light when she gets off. He follows her home after her shift. He can’t stop himself. 

Not to interfere; just to observe. 

She lives outside of the desert, in a tiny town in the hills. He lands the TARDIS outside her flat, a bit of a ways away as to not draw suspicion to himself. A motorcycle - he’s sure it’s hers, it’s the exact same one her original had - is parked in the front. She’s standing still in the living room, near the window. He can see the top of her head. But she turns around suddenly and is gone.

He waits for another sign of movement, but there isn’t any, until--

The front door of the building swings open, and she comes marching out, motorcycle helmet in hand. She’s heading straight towards him. 

Her eyes scale across the TARDIS in a look he can’t quite place; steely, hurt, but somehow loving. It hums back at her, the console whizzing. He can’t decipher the meaning.

He says, “Erm, hi.”

She starts, “You think I don’t recognize that...” and then pauses, shaking her head. “You?”

She’s wearing boots and an overcoat and she looks exactly like _Clara,_ the real Clara, his Clara; they’ve even got the same _helmet_ , hair slightly longer than he remembers, but the same style. What an echo, he thinks. A perfect copy. 

“I was trying to be subtle,” he says. “It’s not like I materialized in your bedroom.” The joke falls upon deaf ears. Of course she doesn’t get it.

But her mouth curls the slightest, and then drops so fast he’s not sure it was even there. She only says, “You’re not subtle. Look at this _box._ ” She stumbles over the word.

It hums again, like it’s laughing. He frowns. He points out, “You’re taking this all rather well.” 

She pauses, hesitating on her feet. She asks, “Why are you following me?” 

He answers, “You remind me of someone.”

“The girl you lost.” She doesn’t beat around the bush.

“Yes.”

She pries, “How so?”

He replies, humouring himself, “Oh, you could be twins.” 

It’s silent for a moment. The air rustles the earth.

She says quietly, “I’m sorry.” The breeze blows her hair against her face. She pushes it out of the way. He’s so familiar with that motion. Everything hurts. 

“For what?” He questions. He’s not sure why she’s apologizing. It’s not her own fault she ended up dead.

Her jaw clenches briefly and loosens. She says, “Because I’m hurting you. I’m hurting you more than you’ve already been hurt.”

“I’m perpetually hurt,” he answers shortly. “Trust me. Meeting you now is...the most benevolent thing the universe has ever done for me.”

She stares into his eyes, like she’s trying to communicate with him somehow, tell him whatever she can’t say in words. She’s biting the inside of her lip again. 

She reaches out, fingertips gliding over his cheek, stopping underneath his jaw. Her skin is hot and blood pulses in her body. She’s alive. She may be an echo, but she’s still alive. She whispers, expression pained, “What can I do?” 

“I don’t know,” he murmurs back, getting lost in her. 

“Please,” she begs quietly. “Please, give me _something_.”

So he tells her plainly, “I miss you.”

She gasps flinchingly at the confession, her breath caught on the inhale, her lungs sharp against her ribs. Her palm presses flat on the side his face, the other coming up to mirror it, and suddenly - in a quick step - her body is wound tight against his and her mouth catches his own, her lips gentle and forgiving. She’s so _warm._ He can’t move past how tangible she is, in front of him, kissing him. His arms wind around her waist tenderly. She tastes like earl grey tea and honey and lightning, like electricity in damp clouds. She tastes like he imagines she always would have, if he’d only ever made the move. 

She pulls back. Her eyes are overwhelmingly mournful, burdened. She’s carrying so much. There are tear tracks down her cheek.

Everything about her is so _physically real,_ so authentic and palpable, that for a moment - just for a split second - all the words and thoughts and emotions he’s been aching to tell her come tumbling out of his mouth, like it’s impossible to contain them any longer. And that’s all it takes.

“You were selfish,” he says, forgetting - or maybe no longer caring - that it isn’t really her he’s talking to. “You wouldn’t even allow me tell you how I felt. How much you mean to me.”

“What?” She asks, caught off-guard, her hands falling from his face.

“Bad timing,” he says. “I know we’ve had bad timing. But I’ve only got time. I could’ve found the right timing if you’d let me.”

She’s frozen still. She tells him deliberately, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You died, and you wouldn’t even let me grieve. You wouldn’t let me take the revenge that was _owed_ for your death.” His voice is rising. He removes his arms, stiffening them at his sides. “You were _owed better._ ”

She’s shaky. She steps back and says, “I’m not dead.”

“I would have killed them all,” he says madly. His eyes are wild and tortured. “That’s my plan. I would have burned down this universe for you. They should have suffered. They deserve it.” 

“Nobody deserves that,” she argues back. She glances around, the grass, the trees, the sky. Anywhere but at him. “Nobody deserves to suffer.”

“Except _me_ ,” he answers furiously. “I’m the one who ends up here, alone, going over every tiny detail I could’ve changed to keep you alive. I could’ve done so many things differently and you would still be here, and we would be _together._ ”

“I _am_ here--”

He moves closer to her. She doesn’t back away again, and the torment encasing his expression is maddening, heartbreaking. He says loudly, “You died, and I didn’t get to tell you that I--”

“Don’t say it,” she interrupts pleadingly, matching volume, “please, don’t say it, don’t say it to me now--”

“Why?” He questions, the distress breaking him down; he can’t think clearly with her standing mere inches from him. “Why won’t you _ever_ let me tell you? Do you have _any_ idea what that does to someone - not being able to tell the person you love that you’re in love with them before it’s too late?!”

“What should I have done?!” She screams, finally snapping open; she meets his eyes angrily, desperately. Her accent slips immediately. “Go on, then, _you_ tell me since you’re the _bloody_ expert in everything _-_ what should I have said, _Doctor?_! Should I have let you confess your love, mirrored it back, and we would have shared one beautiful first and last kiss before I _died_ in front of you?!” She breathes in and out heavily; her chest heaves. Her stare is manic, livid, despairing. “What a fucking _fantastic_ plan! Then I’d leave you to reminisce on what we could’ve been for the rest of time, if only either of us had plucked up the courage to actually _say it_ sooner!”

There’s a millisecond of complete silence, and then--

She claps a hand over her mouth. He stares at her in awe, shock, hope.

He exhales wonderingly, “Clara.”

She turns and takes off running; she hops on her motorbike and shoots him one last glance before she peels away roaringly.

He watches her leave until she fades into the horizon, where he’d always imagined she’d be waiting, anyway.

**VIII.**

He doesn’t chase after her. Not yet. He knows exactly who’s behind this.

Missy meets him somewhere in a refugee outpost around Jupiter, because he has a feeling he’s being watched, and he doesn’t want to attract attention to the girl who is no longer dead.

She greets, “So you’ve discovered our dear friend, alive and well.” She embraces him in a vice grip for an uncomfortable period of time. He stands still, unmoving. 

He asks coldly, “What’ve you done?” 

She takes a seat at the small, hidden booth behind them. She answers innocently, “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

He sits opposite her. “Enough.” His voice is firm and hard. He needs to know. 

She sighs loudly. “What? Gallifrey has returned, Clara is immortal, everybody gets exactly what they want.”

“Don’t lie,” he says. “She’s hiding. The Time Lords aren’t back just because _I_ wanted them back. You hate them. Why are you working with them?”

“Goodness me, present-tense?” Missy replies, shocked and affronted. “No, no, no, no. I made a very specific deal with them. The rest has been for my own amusement.”

“Get to it,” he snipes cooly. “I don’t have the time.”

It strikes a nerve. “You needed to believe she was dead,” she answers, detached and arrogant. “With her dead, you’ve got nothing to live for except revenge. Except for anger. And what’s more motivating than losing the person you love? You’d have done anything. And you did.” She examines her nail polish casually, chipping at a fleck of loose paint on her thumb. “Her sacrifice was necessary; she was your home. You’d never want Gallifrey back with her around. You had no need for it.”

“Explain,” he says.

“I put her in the Dalek,” Missy trills. “That nanotech did wonders on her brain. Combine that with all that regeneration energy you and the Time Lords poured into her - and you really thought she could just _die?_ ” Missy laughs, high and piercing. “She can’t die. Not anymore.”

His head is pounding. He can’t comprehend it all. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course you do.” Missy rolls her eyes. “The Time Lords needed you, Doctor. But they never intended to actually _kill_ her. They owe her their lives, and they repay their debts.” She grins. “They brought her back without knowing what I’d done on Skaro. Clara Oswald. The perfect weapon. Half Dalek, half Time Lord. All the knowledge of the universe inside her head, untriggered.”

“What do you mean, ‘untriggered’?” He asks cautiously.

“Well, she’s a machine of _war,_ ” Missy says cheerfully. “Why do you think she’s on the run? Hiding? I sent her fleeing. The Time Lords want to use her, the Daleks want to destroy her. The _Time War_ ,” she enunciates, “never really ends, does it?”

“I didn’t bring Gallifrey back for _this,_ ” he hisses, anger burning in his chest.

Missy scoffs over her tea. “I did,” she states obviously, like he’s stupid. “ _I_ brought Gallifrey back for this. The ultimate weapon, and her only loyalty in the universe is to you, their greatest fear.” She shrugs one shoulder and winks. “Match made in heaven. I’ve got popcorn on the stove somewhere in time as we speak. Hope I don’t forget where I left it.” 

“Why?” He challenges. “You do nothing for anyone but yourself. They promised you something to engineer their return, before they realized you betrayed them. What was it?”

She waves him off. “I’m still a psychopath,” she answers whimsically, “but at least that fucking _drumming_ is gone.”

**IX.**

Clara returns to her flat, just as he knew she would.

He’s sitting on her couch. The TARDIS is in her unused dining room. She shuts the door softly, and takes a few steps into her living room, unsurprised to find him waiting for her. 

She says blankly, “There’s no use running from you now.”

He stands cautiously, towering over her. He says, “I know what happened.”

“I figured you would,” she responds. It’s so refreshing to hear her actual voice again, sans the fake accent. “I don’t know most of it myself. But I’m nobody’s _weapon._ ” She spits out the word disgustedly. “Time Lords, Daleks - I’m in the middle, and you’re all equally repulsive.”

He can’t argue with her. He’s livid at his own part in this. He says lowly, “I know.”

Her face softens. She steps closer to him and exhales, “I’m sorry. Not you.” She runs the material of his velvet coat sleeve through her fingers. “You didn’t want this.”

“No,” he agrees. He pulls his hands out of his pockets and cups her face in his hands, ignoring all prerequisites. She meets his eyes, and finally, he can find her in them. He says, “But I can’t deny that I’m…”

“It’s okay,” she allows, pushing him onward. “I won’t blame you.”

“Happy,” he finishes. “Oh, Clara, you’re _alive_ \--”

Her lips twist up. “I am,” she says. “I’m alive. There have been costs, but...standing in front of you now,” she breathes out, “whatever state I’m in - God, I’ve missed you.” 

He leans down slowly, and when she doesn’t make a move to stop him, he covers her mouth with his own; he’s finally kissing _her,_ and her palms splay open against his hearts, which are beating furiously in tandem. This is the only thing he’ll ever want again in all of time and space; any wonder the universe has to offer pales in comparison to the way her lips move against his. 

He murmurs, “I missed you. Every possible increment of time you’ve been gone, I - I missed you. How wasted it’s been.” 

“So let’s not waste any more,” she whispers, and links his fingers with hers. Her other hand stays on his face, thumb stroking just below his left eye. “I don’t have a lot of it.” 

He understands, and for once, he pushes the inevitable future out of his mind and locks himself firmly in the present. 

His teeth dig into her pulse point on the inside of her neck; her nails rake down his back, her lips parting breathlessly. He finds the beauty of the most otherworldly galaxies in the scars and freckles on her skin, linking them like constellations. She touches every ridge of his spine, traces the paths of his bones, filling them with stardust. Somewhere in time, a war is still being fought; but it is not here, and it is not theirs.

“You know what this means,” she murmurs, careful not to disturb the shimmering evening sunset floating through the curtains. “I’m trying to protect you.” 

“I know,” he says softly, his arm over her waist.

“I’m sorry,” she responds delicately. “I can’t risk it. They’ll never stop searching for me, and the first place they’ll always look is for you. I won’t put you in that sort of danger.” And then: “I love you too much.”

He says, “I _love_ you. But I can’t lose you again.”

“You won’t,” she assures him, and kisses him again. “But we can’t travel together.”

“Where, then?” He asks pleadingly. “When?”

She smiles gently. “We have all of time and all of space,” she says. “The universe is a small place when the people you love exist in it.”

“Empirical evidence,” he says raising himself onto his elbows. “I need proof.” 

She brushes his hair away from his forehead endearingly, outlining his face with the tips of her fingers.

She answers wisely, “Well, how do you think you found me to begin with?”

He doesn’t have a retort to that. 

**X.**

So she does what he’s been doing his entire life: she runs. 

And over the years, she proves time and time again that she’d been right about the true size of the universe; they find each other in the most unexpected places, a back alley outside of a seedy bar on a dingy planet, a zero-gravity amusement park, a record store in a tiny town in Scotland, in a refugee camp under attack; once, they even get tickets to the same movie at the biggest theatre in space, seated next to each other.

“I’ll see you soon,” she says every time, her lips tender against his.

“How can you be so sure?” He’ll ask, mouth crooked.

“Oh, I’ve got a feeling.”

“What feeling?” 

She smiles, tender and light. The planets orbit their suns; the moons glow bright. He names a galaxy after her; she grows him a garden on an old battlefield. Black holes and white holes shift their energy, matter; dark space expands around them. Stars pulse in the sky, burning up.

She says gently, “Love.” 

And it’s the only answer he’ll ever need.


End file.
